


Leave Out All The Rest

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: AU: in March 1922, a mysterious cat leads to the discovery of an unmarked shallow grave. By the photograph in his pocket, the victim is identified as a musician who was thought to have vanished into the night months before. How will Imelda Rivera react when she learns that her husband never meant to leave her-and what lengths will Ernesto de la Cruz go to to cover up his crime?





	1. I Dreamed I Was Missing

Carolina Flores didn’t make a habit of walking about in the daylight hours. For one thing, her job required to be awake at night. She was a bar maid, among other pursuits. The sort that tipped well and earned her enough to provide the best care for her ailing father that money could buy. He no longer left his bed, which in a way was a blessing. He had no way of learning what she had become. Or how the others looked at her.

On this particular Monday, Carolina was out to buy some honey before it sold out. (Her Papá had asked for it, and he asked for so little.) She wore her Mamá’s long brown dress and did her hair in a painfully plain bun, and for good measure, wore a hat. Though there was only so much good any of that would do. She couldn’t even go to mass on Christmas without getting dirty looks and crass remarks from townspeople.

But as she was handing over her _pesos_ for the honey, Carolina realized that the grocer seemed to not even notice her. In fact, he almost handed her back the full amount instead of just the change. And most of the shops were much quieter than they should have been on a Monday morning.

Something was going on. Something much more noteworthy than the town harlot showing herself to the sun.

So Carolina listened.

“ _Dios mia,_ Lucia, did you hear? At the edge of town-”

“Señor Vazquez, he found…a cat of all things led him to it. A cat!”

“No one knows anything about him-or her.”

“What if it was the Jiménez girl? The one who ran off?”

“I fear I shall never sleep again…what if whoever did this is still among us?”

 “You’re not suggesting that this was…”

“How else would she have ended up in an unmarked shallow grave?”

“But who would do such a thing? And how?”

“No one knows!”

Suddenly, the crowd from the shop, and every other shop in the plaza, poured out into the courtyard, where Señor Vasquez rode in on horseback, followed by Doctor Garcia. Carolina followed along, staying silent among the shouted questions and quieries that stopped when Doctor Garcia put up his hand.

“I’m afraid I can’t say much, but it definitely wasn’t Paola Jiménez. She’s been gone but two Sundays, and there’s nothing left of this poor soul. Nothing but bones, a purple vest, some trousers, and…” Señor Vasquez reached into his coat, “This photograph. Does anyone know him?”

A confused whisper shook its way through the crowd. Carolina took a few steps closer. Goatee, crooked smile, medium dark hair, thick brows, large ears…

“I know that man!”

The crowd gasped and parted, then dozens of heads swiveled her way. For perhaps the first time in Carolina’s life, she was suddenly of use to her neighbors.

“How?” asked Señor Vasquez. He pressed the photograph into Carolina’s hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! He’s a mariachi. He came to town some four months ago with that other fellow, the one who…” the one who’d utilized her services, “Came into the restaurant and ordered four glasses of wine the first night they got here. They had these beautiful painted guitars, and they sang that song, um, “The world is mi familia,” at the beginning of all their shows.” She heard a few mutterings of recognition.

“What can you tell us about him?” one woman demanded. “His name? His hometown?”

“I don’t remember,” Carolina confessed. “But Señor Mendez might. They stayed at his inn.”

At once, Señor Vasquez began trotting his horse in the direction of the inn, and every single townsperson followed suit, anxious to learn the identity of the unfortunate traveler. Carolina and a few others followed Señor Vasquez inside and listened while Señor Vasquez explained the situation. While the innkeeper had never acknowledged her directly, Señor Mendez was fully aware of the way she spent her evenings. So he took Carolina aside to ask her what she remembered of the room.

“Two single beds, brass frames…a little round table, one leg shorter than the rest of them…”

_A charming, muscled man, pressing his rough lips to hers while she slapped on smiles and giggles. The foul taste of garlic mixed with cheep beer. The calloused fingertips from playing guitar, setting her down on the table that rattled and shook._

_The dull, irritated expression on his slender traveling companion as he walked in the door just as they were finishing up._

_“Do you want to go next,_ amigo _?” The glare. “What? She’ll never know.”_

There’d been a she.

Somewhere out there, a woman was waiting for this man to come back to her. Waiting for answers.

“That table is in room number five.” The innkeeper pulled out his book and began flipping through the records. “They were here to perform in the winter _fiesta_ , yes?”

 _“Si,”_ said Carolina.

Señor Mendez flipped another page, then scanned the list. “That weekend, the room was booked under the name Ernesto…”

“Cruz?” Carolina cut in.

“Yes. Ernesto de la Cruz.”

“That was him!”

“The man who was killed?”

“No. The other one.”

Señor Mendez squinted. “My notes say that there were two men in the room, and that one of them turned in his key the night before the other. Late in the evening.”

“I guess he wanted to go home for Christmas,” said Carolina.

“Poor fellow,” Señor Mendez closed the book. “I wish I could tell you more.”

Carolina stepped out and relayed the scant information they’d compiled to Señor Vasquez, who then relayed it to the townspeople. Women cried and gathered their children, men sharpened their knives, and Carolina, having outlived her usefulness, turned invisible.

She tucked the wayward traveler’s photograph into her pocket and went home.

This poor man had no name, no identity, to the only people who knew he had died. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, if that. His friends, his family, the woman Ernesto had referred to, hell, even Ernesto himself, had no idea that he was gone.

Unless Ernesto was the one who’d killed him.

But there was no reason to assume that. All men were pigs. Most men loved alcohol. Very few went around killing and burying their own friends.

Carolina didn’t remember the victim’s name. But she did remember _him_. She remembered his song and his guitar, and watching him dance with Ernesto.

When Carolina’s Papá woke up, she smiled and set a plate of soft bread with honey on his lap. Then she told him about her morning, and showed him the photograph.

“What’s going to happen next, mija?”

“I heard something about arranging a proper burial for him. Besides that, all anyone can do is tell every mariachi in Mexico to look out for a guitar player named Ernesto de la Cruz.”

Carolina walked over to the bedside dresser and placed the headshot beside her parents’ wedding portrait. The one that they had placed on the ofrenda every year on dia de muertos since her Mamá had passed away.

“And in the meantime, we’re just going to have to make sure we remember him.”

* * *

The feelings that Héctor had known in the land of the living-at least, the physical feelings, were gone. There was no hunger, no fatigue, no illness, discomfort, or pain. But there were other feelings to replace those things. Most notably, the intangible, yet palpable sense of being remembered.

He felt the hot, throbbing pulse of Imelda’s memories the strongest. The anger stage of grief must be taking her a while to get through. Of course it was. She’d spent her whole life being hurt and abandoned, and Héctor had promised her through words and actions that he would never do those things to her. And now he had.

He felt the sweet, sad rush of love and confusion from Coco. Of course she was confused. She’d never known death before. He hadn’t planned for her to know it for a long time to come.

Then there was…something, from Ernesto. The memories were strong, but mostly lacking in emotion. A light, hollow rush of happiness. Maybe Ernesto was still in denial. Héctor wondered how that was even possible, considering the sheer amount of time they'd spent together.

Besides this group of people, there were a great many faint wisps. Confusion and judgment from everyone in Santa Cecilia (of course they were judging him, he died because of some bad chorizo for goodness sake). A light fondness from dozens of people who’d seen him perform and remembered his music. Héctor did not even remember who most of these people were, but he was grateful that they’d enjoyed and appreciated his music enough to still think about him occasionally.

Not that he wouldn’t trade every single one of the concerts he’d played for one more day with his wife and daughter.

But what was strange about that night was that some of the memories of him shifted.

A handful of people who had remembered him only a little, and in a positive light, suddenly gave him a stronger, sadder vibe. In addition, others were added to that number.

Maybe word had reached the next town over that he had died?

That was strange. Why had this taken four months?

In any case, Héctor kept his mind occupied working with his Papá at the furniture shop. He lived in a humble shack with his parents again, which was nice, especially since it had been five years since they’d died. He told them all about Coco and Imelda, and played his songs for them. They were proud of him, and of Ernesto, too. But Héctor knew they were sad to see him here so soon.

There was one song that he never played for anyone, though. He waited every night, until after they’d gone to sleep, and went outside to his favorite tree. And he sang.

“Remember me…”


	2. You Were So Scared

Carolina had figured she was signing up to deal in gossip when she applied for her first job. It was as much a part of bartending as mixing drinks and wiping counters. But never in three years of hushed conversations had she seen people get as much mileage out of one fiasco as the murdered mystery musician.  
  
“...and if he really checked out in the dead of night, as Señor Mendez says, then mi hermano most definitely would have seen him on his way home from work.”  
  
“But why would Mendez lie?” Carolina asked as she topped off the man’s gin and tonic and took his payment.

“Obviously, because Mendez murdered the musician at the inn, carried him out at the break of dawn, and buried him in the woods.”

“That’s ridiculous,” another patron spoke up. “How would Mendez have carried a dead body all the way across town without anyone noticing? Besides, if you’re so sure Jorge was there, how do you know Jorge wasn’t the one who killed him?”

“My brother would _never_ kill anyone!”

“Well, neither would mi primo!” declared Señor Mendez’s cousin from the other side of the counter, as he stood up and gestured to Jorge’s brother. “Don’t you have an amigo who also played in that winter festival? One who was hoping to win the best in show title...but didn’t?”

Carolina pocketed another tip, unsure where _that_ accusation had suddenly come from. The best of show winners and runners up were from this town, and were still very much alive.

“Are you all stupid? Obviously it was the Jiménez girl! Why else would she have run away from home so close to her wedding?”

“You honestly think a seventeen-year-old girl killed a man and then dug a shallow grave with her bare hands?”

“Would a man have been stupid enough to bury him with his own headshot? I think not.”

 _Sexist pigs,_ Carolina thought as she slid a martini across the table with a smile and tucked another room key into her cleavage. This, in defiance of anything and everything resembling logic, was the one explanation that always resonated with people. More than anything, though, it was probably because that would mean the killer was no longer among them. For the same reason, many people pointed fingers at Ernesto de la Cruz. Others rationalized that the man had killed himself and someone else had just found the body and buried it on Senor Vasquez’s property.

It didn’t take long for people to start pointing fingers at Carolina. The wives in town, in particular, were quick to accuse her.

“Obviously, it was that _puta_ who recognized his photo."

"Si! She slept with him, he threatened to tell people, and she stabbed him in the chest with that knife she carries around in her satchel!”

Never mind that one more affair wouldn’t even make a dent in Carolina’s reputation. Never mind that her blade was only three inches long, and she’d started carrying it around for protection _after_ the body was discovered.

Her business went down, and so did Señor Mendez’s. It got to the point where he asked her to stop doing her business at the inn until the gossip died down.

 _Papá needs medicine,_ she reminded herself as she allowed an old crone who reeked of chili and piss to knead her breasts like dough and call her by his dead wife’s name. _We need medicine and rice and beans and flour._ He shoved her up against the wall behind the bar and ran his wrinkly, calloused fingers over her cheeks. _And Papá asked for wool socks. The ones he has are threadbare now. He enjoys them, and he enjoys so little now._

* * *

Confusion. Sadness. Fear. Rage. The emotions ebbed and flowed through Héctor’s bones, and swelled and gained strength, as they had been doing for weeks now.

“Papá?” Héctor asked as they shared some tamales while watching the sun set over the land of the dead. “When do the feelings stop being so…negative?”

The man understood what his son was asking.

“It’s different for everyone. For me, they stopped when you died.”

Héctor was surprised. “What?”

“You remembered me well, mijo,” said Papá with a smile. “But never without a few tears.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“They never do.”

Héctor’s father had predeceased him by half a decade. How long would it take for Imelda and Coco to be able to think of him without a few tears? He didn’t want to feel every nuance of their grief. It would be torture. But he deserved it. And a painful connection to them was better than none at all.

And the connection wasn't all painful. Because for a few moments every night, he was granted a warm, tender rush of joy.

* * *

“…until you’re in my arms again!’

Coco froze when she heard three sharp taps on her door.

“Coco, what are you doing in there?”

Coco scrambled to kneel.

“I’m just…saying my prayers!”

She looked up. Mamá cracked the door to see that it was true. Then she smiled.

“Amen,” mumbled Coco, before hopping into bed. She smiled when her Mamá tucked her in with a hug and a kiss, and a story about a princess who slayed a dragon and saved her whole kingdom.

Storytime could be fun. But Coco missed the songs that Mamá and Papá used to sing. Actually, she missed all music, but especially theirs. Mamá said no more music until Papá comes back, and Coco understood that. Papá loved music, so they had to save all the music for him. But _Remember Me_  was different, because even when he wasn’t there, Papá sang it _with_ Coco. Papá sings _Remember Me_  before bed every night, Papá loves music, Papá loves Mama, Papá loves Coco, the sky is blue, water is wet, heat is hot, don’t touch Mamá’s needles or the stove, hitting is bad and kisses are good and Mamá loves Papá and Coco and is the strongest most powerful lady ever and Papá always, _always_ comes back. These were the building blocks of the four-year-old’s world.

Coco wasn’t sure why it was taking Papá so long to come home this time, or what the shoe factory in Mamá’s bedroom was all about. All she knew was that she was waiting.

Sure, Coco had been wrong today, and yesterday, and the day before that. But tomorrow was going to be the day that Papá finally came home. She just _knew_ it.

* * *

 

Carolina exited the bar, shoving the bag containing her already-counted tips into her bosom. It had been a slow night. Very few bar patrons, and none of her other kind of customer. She could only buy half of what she needed. Tonic or flour, rice or beans.

Suddenly, she felt something soft against her leg.

She screamed and leapt to the side, reaching to draw her knife.

But the thing just sat down, curled its tail around its side, and let out a soft mew.

Just a cat.  A filthy flea-ridden street cat, but just a cat. Grey, striped, the bright lights of the street lamps reflecting off of the large amber eyes. Eyes that seemed to want everything and nothing of her.

“Are you all right, Señorita?”

Carolina spun around. There was a man who she’d seen a few times before. A traveling salesman, who normally came into the bar for a drink and to slip Carolina the key to his room at the inn.

Someone who may not have heard the rumors or accusations.

“Buenas noches, Señor Barrero,” she smiled sweetly. “I didn’t know you were here in town. You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”

He grinned. “I just arrived. I didn’t think I’d be getting lucky tonight. Are you still open for business?”

“Depends how much you love me,” Carolina teased, grabbing the man by his hand. He followed suit by taking her to the cart where he kept his wares. He knew the drill. He could pay her in items, as long as he had something she wanted.

“I have something in mind for you,” the salesman said as he opened up a box. He pulled out a pair of electric blue pumps with red and green flower patterns. They were absolutely beautiful, and were the sturdiest pair of shoes Carolina had ever seen.

“They’re so beautiful,” Carolina admitted, tracing the design with her fingertips. “I didn’t know you could make shoes like this!”

“Oh, I wish I could. But they actually came from a zapatera in Santa Cecilia. A strong, lovely woman, like you."

Carolina took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of new leather along with the dewy night air. If she had enough money, she would love to take these shoes. But now...

“I’m sorry, Señor Barrero. I’m afraid that my Papá is very ill, and he needs a new pair of socks.”

The salesman looked a bit disappointed, but he smiled. “Another day, then.” He tucked the shoes back in their box and retrieved a pair of men’s wool socks, fully made, barely worn.

“That...that’s perfect,” Carolina marveled. She had expected some thread and cloth, not fully made socks. The salesman saw her surprise, and smiled. “I didn’t know you sold clothing!”

“Normally I don’t. But this woman-the same one who made those shoes, as a matter of fact, sold me some things that belong to her good-for-nothing meandering husband. Clothes, books, stuff he used to mend his guitar...”

Carolina nearly dropped the socks to the ground.

“Her husband‘s...a musician?”

“Yes,” Señor Barrero’s voice filled with disgust. “Nearly a year ago, he left home with his guitar and his friend. She always assumed he would come back, but rumor has it that around Christmas, the letters stopped. He doesn’t even send money anymore. Imagine, what kind of a man would leave a twenty-three year old woman alone with a child to raise...”

There was a child.

"Come with me," Carolina gently set the socks down, knowing she could never give them to Papá now. ”I think I may know why the musician didn’t come back.”


	3. No One Would Listen

_Snip, snip,_ squeeze old scissors over new leather, force it into a pattern of her choosing. Save the scraps.

Take the needle, stab leather, make ample tight stitches

Layer leather and cork, force it to keep together with hot hoof glue and more stabbing.

Puncture the eyelets. Pierce the leather. Make it suffer.

Slice off extra fabric, yank it shut with laces.

Get the leather paint. Make it as beautiful as it is durable.

Most people channeled their rage into destruction. Imelda Rivera channeled it into creation.

When she was a child, her art mode of choice had been paint. No one appreciated her paintings, but no one had minded them, either. Until the day that Imelda’s mother slapped her in the mouth and told her to shut up and stop acting like the world cared about the opinions of a little girl. Imelda then proceeded to create an elaborate mural on the side of her house in which her Mamá was standing on a pedestal labeled “world’s worst parent.”

Imelda got spanked twice, was forced to scrub the wall, and was never allowed to buy paints again.

But she still had pencils and paper. So she sketched. No one cared about her sketches. Until one day, precisely eighteen months after Mamá’s funeral, when Imelda figured out that Papá was only bringing home half of the money he made, even when they were running low on basic necessities. Papá’s response was to grab her and scream in her face that he was the man of the house and his finances were no concern of hers or any other woman or girl’s. Imelda then proceeded to draw a picture of her Papá sitting on a heap of money, surrounded by piles of sweets and alcohol, while in a corner Oscar and Filipe stood barefoot and starving.

Imelda was slapped. Several times. And all of her pencils were snapped in two and thrown out. The only writing utensils allowed in the house anymore were the ones that the twins needed for school.

But she still had her voice. So she sang. Songs of anger and sadness and mourning and loathing and love. And, as she soon discovered, she had quite a powerful voice. She got up on stage, silenced crowds of people who’d never even noticed her before, and brought them to tears and applause.

When she married Héctor, he promised her that even if she drew him on a pedestal labeled “world’s worst husband” he would never try to take away her stuff. But she didn’t want to paint or draw anymore. She wanted to sing while Hector played for her, on the stage and off. Because when they sang and played together, nothing else mattered.

And then, Héctor walked away and took her voice with him.

So now Imelda created shoes. Durable, practical, protective shoes. Mostly lace-up boots, some high tops. Men and women alike told her that her shoes fit them like gloves and caught the eye of all the right people. They liked her enough to tell their friends to go buy their shoes from Imelda Rivera. They were willing to pay her to repair the shoes they already had, too.

One thing was for sure, if Héctor ever decided to show his face in Santa Cecilia again (and if he did, it would be with his tail between his legs-for all his flaws, her husband always had the decency to know when he screwed up) she would not be giving up shoemaking for him. He could play and sing with Coco, and maybe even with her, once he won her back over (he always did that, too), he could have his so-called brief tours that resulted in him missing half his family’s lives (dios, if it wasn’t for that damn song, Coco might not even remember she ever had a father.) But Imelda would have her business. She would have her roots, her stable income for herself and her daughter.

It had been seven months since the letters stopped. Until December, she had seldom gone even a full day without receiving one. She still checked for them out of habit, though now she waited until Coco was distracted. She couldn’t bear to hear that sweet, hopeful little voice asking “Did Papá write today? Is he coming home?”

The childish part of Imelda wanted to blame Ernesto. She could clearly see the other man standing over her husband’s shoulder, whispering, “Don’t worry about that tough broad you call a wife, amigo, she’s fine without you, I’m the one who needs you now, I need you to come out and be with me, come on, I can’t seize this moment without you, Héctor.” All the same things Ernesto had said to get his friend to come out on tour in the first place. But the fact was that Héctor was a grown man capable of making his own decisions. It was true that he could be passive, especially in the face of begging and pleading, but his love for his wife and daughter should be stronger than his desire to please his best friend.

Or…maybe Ernesto had nothing to do with it. Maybe Héctor just wanted to share his music with the world more than he wanted a family. Maybe he had chosen the thing that had brought them together over her.

Imelda wiped the sweat from her brow as she glanced back behind her at the bed. Her four-year-old daughter, who had been playing with a stuffed doll and a sock puppet a few minutes ago, had fallen asleep. The little girl’s legs, arms, and braids were splayed out across the yellow bedspread, one toy tucked under each elbow, eyelashes fluttering.

Imelda was hurt for herself. More than she was willing to let anyone know, even her brothers. But she was _angry_ for Coco. She could understand why someone wouldn’t love _her_ and want to be with her forever, but she could not understand why someone would walk away from her sweet, gentle baby girl. And Héctor had loved Coco _so much_. He’d cried the day she was born, spent hours just sitting with her, holding her even when she was sleeping, singing to her, kissing her hands, telling her he was so proud to be her Papá and that he would never let anything bad happen to her.

A shiver of anger rushed through her as she punched another set of eyelets.

How much must Héctor be repulsed by her that he would abandon his daughter to get away from her?

She blinked back hot tears as she stood to answer the door, checking herself in her bedside mirror and straightening her apron. Whoever was there, she couldn’t let them see her hurt and anger. Especially if it was Oscar and Filipe coming to pick up more shoes for delivery. It was most likely either them or her neighbor Fernando. She’d promised to repair his shoes by noon, and she had, but the shoes had been poorly made by another cobbler and were going to fall apart again soon unless he allowed her to replace the sole. At which point he might as well just buy a new pair of shoes entirely. She grabbed the pair of shoes she’d just made so she could pitch them to him, ready to explain the other cobbler’s poor stitching and subpar materials.

What Imelda wasn’t expecting was to open the door and see the traveling salesman she’d sold a bunch of Héctor's things to a month ago. He shouldn’t be back in town for a season yet. And he shouldn’t be without his wares and instead accompanied by a tight-lipped woman with shameless open curls. The woman drove a cart with a long flat bed, instead of the salesman’s usual cart. Both visitors looked both relieved and disappointed to see Imelda.

What was happening?

“What can I do for you, Señor Barrero? Have you run out of my beautiful shoes already?”

The man was not in the mood for light banter. He took a deep uneven breath, as if something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“I think I may have some news for you about your husband.”

“Oh?” Imelda tried to appear as calm as possible. “What’s he done this time?”

“Can you tell me where his last letter to you was sent from?”

 “Of course.” Imelda gave the address the letter was mailed from. She’d gone over the thing so many times every detail was memorized.

Señor Barrero’s expression turned even more grave as he retrieved something from his pocket.

“Is this him?”

“Yes!” Imelda snatched the photo out of the salesman’s hand. “This is Héctor!” It wasn’t a photo she’d ever seen before, but it was him. Devilish twinkle and all. “Is he still in that town?”

The salesman swallowed.

“Señora, that town is where the photo was found in the pocket of a man buried in an unmarked grave.”

Imelda’s heart started pounding.

“So, who could Héctor have given this photo to?”

“The man was young. About twenty years, according to the coroner.”

“All right. So maybe another mariachi?”

“He was buried in brown shorts, suspenders, a purple vest, and a red bandana.”

Héctor’s things.

So, they happened to look like Héctor’s things? That didn’t mean…

“Héctor’s last letter was sent on December thirteenth,” Imelda said.

“That was the day your husband checked out of the inn. His friend didn’t check out with him.”

So Héctor  _had_ walked away from Ernesto! Héctor had left the town where he was performing! Héctor had wanted to come home…Héctor tried to come home for Christmas after all…Héctor had…tried…Héctor was…someone had…

Imelda’s whole body shook as she slowly lowered herself to the floor. She curled her hands around the pair of shoes she’d just crafted. And she used her fingers to tear it to bits.

* * *

The tidal wave of shock and pain was strong enough to bring Héctor to his knees. He instinctively brought his hand to his ribcage, where his heart should have been. He knew instantly that it was her. It was hitting her.

 _“Lo siento, mi amor,”_ he whispered. _“Lo sentimos mucho.”_

But he had no way to send feelings back to her.

So instead, he just sat there. He felt her shock, sadness, and pain. The tremors of grief came from others, too. Oscar and Filipe. Ernesto’s mother. The next door neighbors. Many neighbors.

Maybe Imelda was even more powerful than he’d thought. At least as the keeper of his memories.


	4. No One Else Cared

While the sun set over Santa Cecilia, Oscar Solis buttoned his niece’s nightgown and listened to her babble about kittens and chocolate cake. As if he hadn’t come over a few hours ago to find his sister’s world turned upside down. As if there wasn’t a sign nailed to the outside of their home that read “Zapatería Closed until Further Notice.” As if Filipe wasn’t in town making funeral arrangements and Imelda wasn’t still crumpled on the floor.

“Papá says he’s going to buy me another doll when he comes back!” Coco announced as she bounced onto the bed, her arms full of soft toys.

Oscar swallowed the lump in his throat.

“What should we do before bed?” he asked. “Should we play cowboys again?”

Coco ran her fingers through her long, loose hair.

“Storytime with Mamá.”

“Not tonight, Coco,” said Oscar, gently. “Your Mamá isn’t feeling well.”

Coco frowned. “Mamá always says goodnight.”

“You’ll see her soon, Coco. I promise.”

Coco folded her hands in her lap and looked long and hard at her uncle.

“Like Papá?”

Oscar blinked back a tear as he tucked Coco’s blanket around her.

“Coco, your Papá can’t come home anymore.”

She pressed her little lips into a frown.

“Papá always, always comes back.”

“He tried to come back, Coco, but…” How much should Oscar say? How much should he leave for Imelda? How much would Coco understand at all? “Someone wouldn’t let him.”

Coco folded her arms.

“Papá sings a secret song to me until he’s in my arms again.”

“And you’ll be in his arms again, someday. It just won’t be for a very long time.”

Okay. Coco could live with that. A very long time was how long it took to finish making cake. A very long time was how long it took to walk from home to the plaza when it was hot outside. A very long time was how long Coco had already waited for her Papá to come back. She could wait a very long time as long as she got to see him again someday.

So she waited until Tio Oscar gave her a kiss on the forehead and slipped out of the room, and then she sang again.

“Remember me…”

XXX

The iron wheels of the train turned fast as hours that felt like minutes went by. Señor Barerro was sitting across from Carolina, starring at nothing in particular.

“I thought the day I lost my Mamá would always be the worst day of my life,” Carolina finally said. “But this comes very close.”

The man across from her closed his soft copper eyes, just for a moment.

“Maybe this will help bring the good people of your town some peace, too,” he suggested gently. “Knowing who he is and that he’s being laid to rest in the proper place.”

Carolina shook her head.

“Ay, we only know who was killed. What they really want to know is how. The speculation is only going to get worse. God willing, they’ll stop blaming me.”

The man’s eyes widened. “How could anyone think that you killed a man?”

Carolina snorted. “I’m hardly the most upstanding woman in town.”

“But you’re a good person.”

“No I’m not. I sleep with other people’s husbands for money.”

“Would you be doing that if you had any other way to take care of your Papá?”

“Of course not.”

“How could you be bad for taking care of your own family? And if those people who think so ill of you were good people themselves, they would have done something for you so you wouldn’t have to resort to…this.”

There was an awkward pause. Señor Barrero had always considered himself a good person, and he thought of himself as a man who treated women decently, always asking if they were comfortable and making sure they got home safely. Yet he was still, in a way, taking advantage of them.

He decided that as soon as they got back to the place where he’d stored his cart, he was going to give Carolina the shoes. And wool to make socks for her Papá. And he was going to ask for nothing in return.

XXX

Imelda straightened her back against the wall of her house, sore now from hours of being curled up in a ball. She wiped the sweat and tears from her cheek and saw that the twins had left a gas lantern on for her. A few feet away from that was a long wooden box. A plain, simple thing made of weak wood that resembled a shipping crate more than a coffin. A vessel cobbled together with no love or thought. Her husband had been buried in this, because she hadn’t known he was dead.

Actually, before that, he had been buried with nothing but old clothes and a photograph. That was all he had with him in the land of the dead. Nothing to keep him safe or warm or remind him that he was loved.

Why hadn’t she worried about him? Why had she been so intent on hating him for leaving her, even though the letters had stopped abruptly and without warning? Had it really been that much easier to stomach the notion that her husband had abandoned her, than that the perky young man who had loved music and family and life so much had died?

Yes. Yes it had.

Imelda’s bruised fingers found the grooves in the lid to the coffin, lifted it up, and slid it to the side.

Long face, high cheekbones, pointy chin. She knew him, even like this. The hands that had held hers while they spun around on wooden floors were now cold and smooth, the lips she’d brought to her own and kissed countless times gone, the finger she’d slipped a gold ring on bare. Whoever killed him had stolen it along with everything else. He’d promised her he would never take it off.

He was still wearing his old clothes. She wanted to put him in his mariachi suit, but that was missing, too. Señor Barrero had returned what was left of the things she’d sold, which was guitar strings and two pairs of socks. She unrolled a pair of the socks and slipped them on his feet. Then she got out a sewing needle, repaired the shoes she’d destroyed earlier, and put them on, too.

Then she kissed him goodnight, on the top of the forehead, in the same spot where he used to kiss her.

 _“Lo siento, mi amor._   _Lo sentimos mucho.”_

XXX

Despair, anger, guilt, fear, and overwhelming love, all in the same heartbeat.

Héctor hadn’t known that it was possible to feel her so strongly, for any connection to be so strong. She’d been trying not to think about him and succeeding. But for some reason, today, it was hitting her. He wanted to tell her it was okay, that she could have as long as she needed. He hoped she was safe. He hoped someone was with her besides just Coco. Imelda would never admit that she needed help to get through a day to anyone outside of her own family. And now her only living family was a child, teenage boys, and a lump of a father who she wouldn’t speak to anyway.

He wished he could have asked someone to help her get through this. Maybe even Ernesto.

XXX

By the following midday, the house was filled with a small crowd of mourners. Praying and crying. A voice in Imelda’s head screamed that this was all wrong. She wasn’t even supposed to be here for her husband’s death. This should all be Coco’s job in another sixty years. Imelda wasn’t supposed to be showing her little girl how to sprinkle marigold petals around their living area and talking to the priest who’d officiated her wedding five years ago about funeral services and grave plots.  She didn’t want to be burning candles around her husband’s coffin and hugging the people who had frowned on her wedding day because they didn’t understand how a sweet boy like Héctor could be a match for her.

After she ate some of the food the neighbors had brought over and made sure Coco ate, too, Imelda locked herself in her bedroom to work on her speech for the funeral. Instead, she sat and listened through the cracks in the wood to the stories people were telling about Héctor. One man talked about how Héctor had stopped in a rainstorm to cheer him up with a song after his girlfriend broke up with him. An older woman said that Héctor had stopped to compliment her flower arrangements every time he came to the plaza. Oscar talked about how Héctor bought him and Filipe their trumpets and taught them how to play music.

What should Imelda say at the funeral? What _could_ she say? Her husband was dead and nothing was ever going to be okay again.

Coco slipped into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her, climbing up onto Héctor’s side of the bed.

“Mamá, can I have a pencil and paper? I want to write Papá a letter and tell him to come back from the land of the dead.”

Imelda handed over the requested items.

“He can’t come back. But you can tell him you love him.”

“Why can’t he come back?”

“Because that’s not how it works.”

“Can we go there and be with him?”

“That isn’t how it works either.”

“Says who?”

“God.”

“Then I gotta have a talk with him, because this isn’t right.”

As Coco skipped out of the room, Filipe stepped in.

“Are you sure you don’t want some help writing your speech?”

Imelda shook her head. “You stay out there with them. Keep Héctor surrounded by friends and happy memories.”

Filipe hesitated.

“Not all of his friends are here, you know.”

Imelda’s face hardened.

“I know,” she said coldly. Then she waved her brother away. And she finally put her pencil to the paper, not to write her speech, but to write what looked like a form letter from a morgue, telling a man that his best friend and partner and song had been dead all year. She didn’t know where to send it to, but she could find out. She didn’t like him, and she definitely didn’t want to see him now. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Héctor. And Héctor would have wanted him here.


	5. After My Dreaming

By the time the sun began to set on Santa Cecilia, all of the guests had left the Rivera house. After she put Coco to bed, Imelda pulled herself together and set about making the mile long trek to Doña Lenor’s house. It was a lovely place, covered in white clapboards that Imelda had repainted herself a few years ago when they started to peel. Imelda had also scrubbed the floors, tended the flower beds, and made tea for Lenor every Monday and Thursday for five years. Until the day that Lenor decided to hire someone full time. Imelda was already engaged at that point, so she decided to double down on rest of her odd jobs instead and soon ended up dropping them all to become a stay-at-home mother.

Most people in Santa Cecilia found Doña Lenor odd. She was one of their go-to subjects for gossip when there was nothing real going on. But working for her, Imelda had learned that the older woman’s true flaw wasn’t her collection of orange shawls, nor was it her habit of encouraging dozens of cats to wander around both outside and inside. It wasn’t even that she refused to leave the house except to go to mass a few times a year.

No. Lenor de la Cruz’s flaw was none of those.

“Of course I’ll send this letter to my Ernestitititito,” Lenor told Imelda with a whimper and a squishy hug. Imelda returned the hug, then gently patted the older woman’s arm. “ _Dios mia_ it seems like just yesterday, doesn’t it? That Nestie and Héctor were just children, out there chasing frogs, Nestie tackled Héctor to the ground but then helped him back up again so they could chase frogs some more, and Nestie had this beautiful chin dimple back then and this one curl of hair that he wouldn’t quite stay in place, and now Héctor's been killed and Nestie is out in the world, wandering, making music, playing songs, all on his own!”

She stopped talking long enough to let out a sob, which Imelda used as an opportunity to get a word in edgewise.

“Can you give me his address, por favor? I would rather send the letter myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lenor snatched the letter. “I won’t let you trouble yourself on our account, Imelda, you have enough to deal with. I promise I will send the letter off tomorrow along with Nestie’s weekly care package. Ay! Let me get you some sweet cakes, querida. You can take them home and share them with your baby.” Another sob came. “That poor little baby. She’s going to grow up without her father, just like my Nestie did! And now you are all alone in this world, just like me!”

Imelda quirked an eyebrow. Señor de la Cruz had left the family when Ernesto was _sixteen_ , and although Lenor referred to herself as a widow, everyone knew her husband wasn’t actually dead. According to Señor Barrero, he spent most of his time at a racetrack in Monterrey.

The irony was painful. Here was Lenor taking comfort in thinking of her estranged husband as being dead, when Imelda had spent months doing the exact opposite.

Imelda was lucky to have loved and lost. But God was it difficult to look at it that way right now.

“I do hope Nestie can make it home for the funeral,” Lenor said. “Last I heard from him, he told me he wasn’t planning on coming back to Santa Cecilia for a very long time.”

* * *

As the next few days dragged on, Coco’s feelings towards her memories of Héctor became stronger, sadder, and more confused. Imelda ran through a vibrant wheel of anger, love, and despair. All the things he’d expected to receive from them initially, and he was getting them now.

He understood the connection between the tones of Imelda and Coco’s memories of him. Coco was not yet five, of course she was influenced by her mother’s emotions. Oscar and Filipe looked up to Imelda, too. And perhaps she or the boys was going around town telling everyone in Santa Cecilia nice stories about him or something. That could explain why all the confusion and judgement was being replaced with sadness and fondness.

But then one day, Ernesto’s happiness was replaced by a jolt of something so strong Hector’s knees nearly buckled.

Fear.

What could Ernesto possibly have to fear from Hector? What had Ernesto _ever_ had to fear from Hector?

And then there came…anger? But why?  Anger towards the memories? Hector’s death? Hector himself?

Maybe it was just hitting Ernesto now, too. That must be it. The poor man had been in denial about his best friend being dead all this time. And now he had somehow been hit with it and was angry about it.

Estúpido chorizo.

* * *

Imelda wasn’t sure what pissed her off more.

That she had, by her own principles, been forced to invite Ernesto to Héctor's funeral.

Or that Ernesto hadn’t even bothered to show up.

That bastard. _Of course_ he had better things to do.

She’d been prepared to deal with him for Hector’s sake, one last time. Clearly that feeling was not mutual.

Everyone in Santa Cecilia who wasn’t at death’s door squeezed themselves into the dusty chapel. Some grief stricken. Some compassionate. And some just for the spectacle. Sadly, they were not disappointed.

First, Doña Lenor shocked everyone by marching down the hill with her cane and her black dress and shoving her way to the second to first pew, giving the appearance that she was part of the family of the deceased. Because Imelda didn’t have enough of a spotlight shining on her.

Secondly, Imelda’s father came stumbling out of his shack wearing an unpatched, torn up jacket and wielding a beer bottle. He sat down next to Doña Lenor, who asked him to move to the other side of the pew so that she could have more space for her cane. When he refused, she threatened to stab him with it until he moved back a row.

Next came Padre Santos’s standard issue funeral sermon. The one he wrote at the beginning of the war and now used for everyone.

“We will always remember and honor the sacrifice that…Héctor Rivera made. And even though…Hector Rivera, is no longer with us, it is important for us to continue to remember the importance of faith, and knowing that the lord makes everything happen for a reason.”

At that, Imelda stood up and plunked Coco, who’d been in her lap, down between Oscar and Filipe.

“Gracias, Padre Santos, that will be quite enough.”

No one had ever interrupted the priest before, but seeing that the grieving widow’s tone suggested that murder was wasted on the dead, he obliged and stepped down.

Imelda grabbed a footstool to stand on and ascended the podium. She looked out at the sea of plain fabrics and curious eyes. Coco’s eyes widened as one of her uncles grasped each of her hands and offered weak, encouraging smiles.

She remembered the last time she’d stood in front of them. On the stage in the plaza. Hector’s fingers on his guitar strings as she danced around him, the audience clapping, the looks they exchanged as they anticipated the parts of their song coming up.

_“The loco that you make me, it is just un poco crazy, the sense that you’re not making…”_

_“…the liberties you’re taking…”_

_“Leaves my cabeza shaking…you are just un poco loco!”_

_His voice. His hair. The love in his eyes. Neither one of them looking out at the audience until the very end. That was their secret, that they didn’t care what anyone thought. The rest of the world was welcome to enjoy their music, but it remained theirs._

And now it was over.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” said Imelda. “My husband didn’t make any sacrifice. And his life wasn’t taken by a deity. It was taken by a coward. We don’t know who it was. We may _never_ know who it was. If Hector was here, he might have something comforting to say to us about his death, like that there’s no great loss without some small gain, that maybe he’s the reason why some other innocent person didn’t get killed, that he’s so proud of me for learning how to make shoes and the way that my brothers have stepped up with Coco. That was Héctor. But Héctor is gone now.”

Imelda’s gaze flashed to Padre Soto.

“You want to talk to me about _reason_? My daughter is an orphan because someone out there is hanging up her father’s mariachi suit. I lost the love of my life because someone out there is wearing a pair of gold cufflinks made from his melted-down wedding band. Someone out there has a few extra pesos in his pocket because he murdered Héctor Rivera, and I’d like to believe that that someone is tormented and begins every morning wondering how he’ll live with himself, but the truth is that he’s probably just fine. Not every cloud has a silver lining. Some clouds are just clouds.”

As the people of Santa Cecilia took in what was, admittedly, probably the only honest speech ever made at a funeral, Imelda stepped down and went back to her seat. A murmur ran through the church. Was that it? Was the service over?

“Should we go get the coffin?” Oscar and Filipe whispered to Imelda in unison.

“Can Papá come back now?” asked Coco.

Imelda waved the boys to the front of the room, shook her head at Coco, who sighed and leaned into Imelda. Coco had seen the skeleton in the box yesterday when all the visitors were over, and people wanted her to believe that her Papa had turned into that skeleton, but she wasn’t buying it any more than she’d have believed he turned into a lamppost. He was a person, not a thing.

Imelda watched as Oscar and Filipe struggled to lift her husband’s coffin. She realized she should have asked for more pallbearers. Her brothers were strong but lanky. One neighbor stood up to help them by taking the back end while they took the front, which made for an awkward, uneven arrangement.

“Allow me.”

All heads swiveled to the back of the church. Imelda’s stomach turned.

Ernesto had come after all.


	6. I Woke With This Fear

His tall frame took up the whole church doorway, tan and white suit, gleam and glimmer and mariachi glory.

Chiseled jaw, perfect white teeth, mustache, hair gel, just enough stage makeup to make him look like he wasn’t wearing stage makeup. Dark circles under sad eyes.

He was perfect, just like he’d planned.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Imelda glowering at him, but then she looked away. Turning her attention back to Coco.

 “ERNESTITITI-“

Ernesto held up his hand to silence his mother, who covered her mouth with both hands in an attempt to contain herself.

Mamá  was wonderful, but she didn’t understand that this wasn’t the moment for a joyous reunion. This was Ernesto’s moment. And he had to do it right.

Dozens of eyes flitted back and forth between him and their laps. No one’s focus was on anything else. Those twin brothers of Imelda’s-Fabio and what’s-his-name?-looked startled, but not displeased with Ernesto’s expression of measured solemnness. They scrambled a little when Ernesto hoisted the coffin onto his shoulder, then lowered it again to accommodate their height.

He found himself face-to-face with Imelda, whose stoic gaze avoided his as she stood up and gathered her child in her lap. Everyone else rose, too.

It was time for Ernesto de la Cruz to cart Héctor Rivera to his final resting place, put him in the ground, and say goodbye. An appropriately tragic ending to a lifelong friendship.

No one would ever know that he was doing it for the second time.

* * *

As if he hadn’t been faced with enough surprises in the past few days, Héctor was greeted with an even more startling, albeit pleasant one, when he woke up from his afternoon siesta.

New comfortable hand-crafted shoes on his feet. Patched up shorts. A clean white shirt.

His parents were the only ones with the keys to the house, and they were at an art show today. They also didn't make a habit of changing other people's clothing while they slept.

Héctor quickly felt up and down his body. He reached in his pocket for his photograph, his only physical reminder that he had ever been a living man, but it was no longer there. In its place was a folded scrap of brown paper with a note.

_Y aunque la vida me cueste, mi amor, no dejaré de quererte._

Imelda's handwriting. He would have known it anywhere.

But how had she gotten this to him? She wasn't _here_ , was she? No, Héctor realized, with equal amounts of relief and disappointment, she wasn't. He could still feel her memories. None of the people who knew her had died, either.

Had she...had she _dug up his body and buried it again?_

He assumed that it had been a matter of money…but no, Imelda must have been so angry when she found out he died that she buried him in the worst clothes she could find. He had known she was feeling guilty, but he never would have thought she was _so_ guilty she would actually dig up his grave to put a new outfit on his corpse. She could have just waited a few months for dia de muertos and put them on the ofrenda. He wouldn’t have minded.

Héctor looked down at the note in his hands. If he hadn’t already, he could have forgiven every squabble he and his wife had ever had for this message alone.

_Chorizo maldito._

* * *

Reading most people came so naturally to Ernesto de la Cruz that he considered it less of a skill than a God-given gift. Making friends, recruiting fans, and getting women into bed were as easy as breathing. Convincing the mayor of Mexico City to let him fill in for the mariachi band who was supposed to play at his daughter’s wedding (a mere two days after Héctor’s…disappearance) had taken half an hour and less than three drinks. From there, his career had skyrocketed. He only played at events for very important people now, while most days, he headlined shows, filled auditoriums, signed autographs, posed for photos, and buttered up reporters with quotes about changing hearts and seizing moments.

_“When did you start to realize that you would become a musician?”_

_“I have always been a musician. The music isn’t just in me, it is me!”_

_“What advice do you have for other young men like yourself, who have music in their blood?”_

_“Seize your moment, grab it tight, and make your own dreams come true!”_

_“What’s next for you, Senor de la Cruz? When can we expect new songs from you?”_

_“When they come to me here… in my heart.”_

Ernesto had wondered, on occasion, if he had been hasty in killing the goose who laid the golden eggs. But then he remembered that the goose had been about to fly off anyhow. And unlike the farmer in the cautionary fairytale, Ernesto _had_ found one single egg in the goose’s belly. An egg that the bird had selfishly been keeping hidden.

Remember me.

And now, there was a chance that he could lose that egg.

Reading most people came naturally to Ernesto de la Cruz. But Imelda Rivera was not most people. He had tried telling Héctor from the beginning, “You don’t want that woman, amigo. She’s as predictable as a storm.”

And now, flying about her makeshift workshop wrapped in black and grey wool, she kind of looked like one.

Ernesto cleared his throat, and she dropped the pair of shoes she was holding and her eyes went straight to him. Vacant eyes, seemingly void of any and all emotion.

As Ernesto was trying to parce out what she might be about to do in that moment, Imelda ripped off her chancla and slapped him upside the head with it.

“How _dare_ you show your face around here, in  _mi casa_ after what you did to Héctor?”

Ernesto’s blood ran cold, but he maintained his composure.

“What? Imelda, I…”

“You’re the one who _begged_ him to go out on tour with you. If it wasn’t for you, he never would have ended up in that cursed city, never would have been anywhere near the bastard who put him in the ground!”

Ernesto’s shoulders relaxed. Imelda’s shook.

“How could you let him walk to the train station at night all alone in that city! Héctor loved you! He trusted you! You were supposed to protect him!”

“I know!” Ernesto cut in. Something in her eyes shifted, so he took the gamble and continued. “I know I failed him, all right?”

“I thought he was with _you_ ,” Imelda spat out the words like venom. “And all that time, you thought he was at home in Santa Cecilia but you never came to see him? You never even wrote him a letter.”

“We had a fight,” Ernesto said quietly. “The night he left, he told me he was going back home to you and Coco. That he was going to stay with you.”

“For Christmas.”

“No. For good. His last words were, “Hate me if you want, but my mind is made up.” And he walked out of there with his trunk and his guitar, and…”

Ernesto stopped, as if choking back tears. He thought he saw Imelda's gaze soften, just a tiny bit.

“What I wouldn’t give to be able to tell him that I could never hate him. Héctor may not have been perfect, but he was the best friend I ever had, and now he’s...” Ernesto stopped. His eyes watered. His lip quivered.

Imelda’s long, slender arms folded around him, her face nestled against his shoulder, her small, calloused palms stroking his back.

God, he was good at this. Perhaps acting could be his backup plan.

* * *

The next few weeks went by in a haze. Imelda tried her best to keep life normal for Coco, which meant saving her grief for nighttime, which sometimes meant crying alone in her bed until the sun started to rise and she might as well get up and start making shoes. It meant working hard and finding peace in moments where everything felt normal only to have it all come crashing down again when she started to think about what was and what would never be. It meant smiling through the pain when Coco continued to ask why Papá was in the land of the dead and when he was going to come back from tour. Imelda couldn’t allow herself the fantasy that he would one day walk back through the door and sweep her in his arms and tell her he loved her and never wanted to leave again. Not anymore.

But now, thanks to Ernesto, she knew that that could have been her reality if Héctor hadn’t been killed. That he really would have come home to be with them for good.

All of her reasons for resenting her husband’s amigo hadn’t gone away, but she was grateful to him for that.

Ernesto continued to come by the house every few days to check on her and Coco. They didn’t really need it, it was a little annoying to be viewed as a helpless widow, but the man clearly meant well. And he was patient and kind when Coco repeatedly greeted him with “Where’s Papá?”

One day, about a month after the funeral, Imelda asked Ernesto how long he was planning on staying in Santa Cecilia.

“Only a little while longer,” Ernesto said. “But there’s something I would like to do before I leave.”

“Oh?”

“I would like to put on a tribute concert for Héctor. In the plaza.”

Imelda’s face darkened.

“What do you think? You could sing Poco Loco.”

“Absolutely not. You can put on the concert, but I’ll have no part in it.”

“You won’t even attend?”

“No.”

A few seconds ticked by.

“I understand,” Ernesto said gently. “He would want you to put your own needs first.”

“Get out of my house,” Imelda snapped.

Ernesto was startled, but he obliged.

Héctor might want Imelda to put her own needs first, but she hated herself for having to. If she were a better wife she would get up onstage and sing, Poco Loco and maybe La Llorona. But she wasn’t ready for that. She didn’t even let Oscar and Filipe play their trumpets in the house because of what music did to her. There was no way in hell she was about to go to a concert consisting of all the songs that Héctor loved and had sung.

The following day, Ernesto came back to the house. Imelda hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, less than four hours, in fact, but she immediately offered him a tamale and told him to sit down for a few minutes.

After talking to Coco and answering a few questions about Héctor being "lost" and how they could go about finding him, Ernesto revealed his true reason for coming over again so soon.

“I need your permission to put on the concert."

“I already gave it."

Or had she? She was so tired. Maybe she was remembering it wrong.

“I need it in writing to play The World Es Mi Familia,” Ernesto explained. He slid a piece of paper across the table. A contract he had drawn up.

_“I, Imelda Rivera, grant Ernesto de la Cruz permission to publicly perform any song written by my late husband Héctor Rivera and receive full credit and compensation in any form for performing Héctor Rivera’s songs on the night of May 17 th 1922.”_

Then there was a big gap on the page, and then the signature block. The whole thing seemed a bit extraneous and self-important, but that was Ernesto. She signed and dated the document and gave it back to him.


	7. What Am I Leaving?

_December 13 th, 1921_

Héctor saw a soft glow of light dancing on the horizon, and wondered why he could no longer feel the winter chill on his skin. He stood to his feet, the pain in his stomach now a thing of the past, along with the hunger that should have taken its place.

To one side of him was a brilliant land occupied by strange conglomeration of architecture, from pyramids to pueblos to city apartments. But to the other side, he appeared to be standing on a large cliff overlooking a bottomless expanse of inky black.

Was he dreaming?

Around him, creatures were materializing. No, not creatures-humans. But they took the form of skeletons. Elders with grey hair spun and bounced like children on a playground. Youngsters clapped their hands and wiggled their bare phalanges in amusement. Adults reflected Héctor’s own confusion as they took in their surroundings.

Okay, so he was definitely dreaming.

What other explanation could there possibly be for all of this?

The elderly skeletons flew one by one past a sign that claimed to point to the department of family reunions. Skeletal nuns in habits came out and beckoned to the children. “Come, let us help you find your ancestors.” One adult female skeleton broke down sobbing under a banner that read, “Bienvenido a la Tierra de los Muertos.”

But that would mean…no…he couldn’t be…there was no way that…Héctor couldn’t just be…

That’s when he looked down and saw his own exposed ribcage under his vest.

A scream he hadn’t known he had in him escaped his throat. No! No! He had to go back!

He turned and ran for the pit that he now knew separated him from the land of the living and braced himself for the impact. But an invisible force stopped him from jumping, from moving any part of his body over the edge. He threw himself at it. Again. And again. Nothing changed.

“It’s not going to work.”

Héctor turned around to find a nun staring down at him. He sank down to his knees.

“Please, Señora,” he begged. “I have a child. Surely, there is something that can be done? I’ll do anything!”

The woman glowered at him as she hoisted a tiny skeleton onto her hip. Pink ribbon and ivory blanket, not even a year old.

“If there was a way to send people back, don’t you think I would send _her?_ No, there is _not_ something that can be done. You’re dead. You’ll be here for as long as memories of you persist in the land of the living. Now go on. Get yourself together. Come back on dia de Muertos.”

He folded his arms over his knees as silent tears streamed down his face.

It was hours before Héctor picked himself up off the floor and headed over to the department of family reunions. They handed him a stack of paperwork to do. He had to give them all his personal information, including the location and circumstances of his death. (He guessed a hospital in the city, he wasn’t sure exactly where Ernesto would have taken him once he lost consciousness, but he couldn’t imagine they’d made it to the train station.) Then he was asked to fill out a list of his living family, “So that we can contact you upon their arrival.” Aside from Imelda, Coco, Ernesto, and Lenor, he wasn’t sure who to list. He knew he had a distant cousin in Monterrey, but he couldn’t remember if that guy’s last name was Montez or Mendez, so he just wrote both down with question marks. Then, before handing the form back, he scribbled down his father-in-law’s name as well. He’d never been the man’s biggest fan, and the feeling was definitely mutual, but it seemed wrong to leave out Coco’s abuelo.

By the time that was done, Héctor’s parents were already waiting for him in the hall with hugs and condolences. With one of their hands in each of his, Héctor made the trek to their home on the outskirts of town. It had two rooms, a master bedroom and a common room, plus a modest yard. It was fenced in, with a cluster of avocado trees, and another big sturdy one he couldn’t identify.

For eight months, he would confine his life to his Papa’s upholstery shop, the shack, his remaining connection to his living family-their memories of him-and his own cycle of grief. At night, he would sleep either on a blanket in the common room or up in the big tree.

He helped his Papá make furniture for other people at the shop, but he never made himself a bed.

* * *

_August 4 th, 1922 – present day_

_Clean. Chop. Snip. Cut._

Héctor was dead. Héctor was dead before Christmas. Héctor was buried in May. Imelda had buried her husband. Her husband had a tombstone with a dash between two years. Her husband was dead. Héctor was dead.

_Burn. Hiss. Glue. Cut._

Héctor was never going to turn twenty-two. He wouldn’t walk Coco to school or help her with her homework or teach her how to play guitar. He wouldn’t look sternly into the eyes of a young man wishing to court her or give her away at her wedding. He would never be an abuelo.

_Pierce. Stitch. Poke. Cut._

Coco’s old baby blankets and clothes would never go to a baby brother or sister. Imelda would never again wake up to the sound of a guitar slowly strumming out a love song written just for her. She would never run her hand through a tousled head of gray hair or kiss a wrinkled cheek.

_Slice. Yank. Paint. Dye. Boil. Hiss. Tie. Cut._

About two weeks after Héctor’s funeral, Imelda’s Papa came by. A pair of lace-up high tops dangled on his left arm, scuffed and scratched. A shiny, newly purchased flask in his right hand.

“What can I do for you?” she’d asked him.

In answer, he’d pushed the flask into her hand, turned to leave, and then turned back around again just long enough to say, “Don’t dwell on it, mija. It only makes it worse.”

She was so tired she didn’t even realize until later that he hadn’t asked her to repair the shoes.

Imelda shook the flask. It was only about a quarter full, of course he hadn’t been able to resist drinking some on the way over, but she could smell the cheap whiskey from the outside.  For the first time since she was a child, Imelda felt like she understood her Papa. This state of living was hideous. Numbess was the closest thing that existed to relief, so he’d chosen it over everything else in his life. Let his children finish raising themselves while cleaning up his mess.

Imelda took the flask outside and dumped the translucent liquid into the sand.

Now there was nothing left to do but dwell on it. Let reality run down her back like cold ice water most minutes of most days. Hug her daughter. Make shoes.

_Clean. Chop. Snip. Cut._

* * *

Carolina Flores Barrero was no longer a prostitute. She was no longer a barmaid. But sliding a gold band on her calloused ring finger and trading in low necklines for gingham aprons didn’t erase anyone’s memory. She was still the woman who’d pulled their husbands’ wandering eyes in her direction, who’d turned their sons from boys to men. And now her Pap _á_ , who’d lived a respectable life and once been adored by many, was now being laid to rest with a pocketful of marigolds and a funeral procession of three.

“You can go, padre,” Carolina said, once the necessary burial rites had been completed and the coffin rested at the bottom of a six-foot pit. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your work.”

The priest didn’t put much effort into masking his relief as he took his payment and walked away.

Carolina’s husband of three months pulled her close to him, wiping tears from her cheeks that she hadn’t felt herself shed.

“It’s all right, mi amor. Your Pap _á_ is at peace now.”

As Señor Barrero began dumping shovelfuls of soft dirt over the plain wooden coffin, Carolina said a silent prayer for her father’s safe arrival in the land of the dead. Then she said a prayer of thanks for Héctor Rivera, the man who had brought her and her husband together without ever knowing either of them.

* * *

Héctor vaguely remembered wandering out of the upholstery shop, but nothing he’d seen or heard in the past half hour since he’d left it.  Somehow, he’d arrived back at the edge of the world. In the place where he’d first woken up dead.

The odd strip of desert outside the great city looked different in the light of day. But just as depressing. Just as thick with bewildered men and women, unfurling like scrolls in flashes of gold dust. A few nuns dotted the area near the Bienvenido sign, but Héctor didn’t see any babies or children around. The measles epidemic must be over.

One of the nuns quirked an eyebrow at Héctor, comfortable in his bones and clearly not new to the land of the dead.

“If you’re looking for someone, the department of family reunions should be able to help you.”

Without meaning to, Héctor allowed himself to imagine it. Them here. Imelda, long lashes and loving gaze. Coco, wide grin and chunky braids. Flinging white arms around him. The pulse of their memories, gone from his being. His family together again, forever. Or at least for as long as they were all remembered.

It was a selfish thought to have, and an even more selfish thought to take pleasure in. He didn’t want his loved ones to die young just so that he could be with them now. Especially not Coco. He couldn’t imagine anything in the world worse than his daughter joining the parade of baby skeletons that appeared periodically as some illness or another swept through an area.

But, Héctor realized, something _had_ changed. A tiny slip, a subtle shift.

One of the keepers of his memories was gone.

It wasn’t his immediate family, a good friend, his father-in-law (who continued to remember him with generous helpings of disdain), or even distant cousin Montez-Mendez.

“Excuse me?” Héctor jolted with a start as a newly minted skeleton approached him. An older gentleman with broad shoulders and a mustache, golden petals spilling from the front pocket of his jacket. “Are you looking for someone?”

“I’m…yes…I mean…no…I mean…I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m looking for anymore.”

The older man came closer.

“You’re Héctor Rivera.”

Héctor was startled. “Yes? How did you know?”

“How did I know? You’re all anyone in the city has been talking about, mi amigo!”

“Why? Did they make it illegal to buy chorizo after ten pm after I died of food poisoning?”

The older man held out his hand.

“Allow me to introduce myself. Pedro Flores. We should talk.”


	8. What Have I Done Here?

This was the first place in the land of the dead that Héctor had gone by choice, and it wasn’t really much of a place. He and Señor Flores had agreed to meet here because it had stood out among the bright-colorful buildings in this area of town. It was opened in the late 1700’s by a group of brothers who’d always wanted to own a bar, but now all but one of the brothers had been forgotten. The one who remained was decrepit and weak, and through he refused to sell the place, he didn’t actually run it anymore and allowed people to use it for pretty much whatever they wanted.

And for some reason, what Señor Flores wanted was to scrawl a timeline of the events surrounding Héctor’s death across the chalkboard that had once been used to write down specials.

“Let’s go over this one more time.” Señor Flores pointed to the leftmost area of the chalkboard. “First, you had an argument with your friend, Ernesto de la Cruz. You were about to walk out when he apologized and offered you a drink.”

Héctor nodded. “Yes. He gave me a toast, and said he would move heaven and earth for me.”

“And then a few minutes later, you collapsed at the side of the road. Ernesto was still with you during this time, si?”

Héctor nodded. “He’s the one who pointed out that I shouldn’t have ordered chorizo.”

 _“Right._ Now, none of us in town had any idea that Ernesto walked you to the train station. We all assumed that you had gone off on your own the night you died, which would mean that you were mugged and killed by a stranger. But now that we know Ernesto was with you…we know…”

“…that I died of food poisoning!”

Flores grunted. “Sure. You died of food poisoning! In the presence of your best friend. Four months later, your body was discovered in an unmarked shallow grave on a pepper farm. How do you think it got there?”

Héctor scratched his chin. “Perhaps…Ernesto ran to go fetch a doctor? And while he was gone, someone else found my body and moved it? And then when he got back and I was missing, he assumed I’d just gotten up and left?”

“Who the hell would move a dead body?”

“Hmm…I suppose…an ocelot!”

 _“Ay!_ Amigo, no one in town knew that anything bad had happened to you. In fact, no one _anywhere_ knew that anything bad had happened to you! You said Ernesto was your best friend for two decades. Surely he knew your wife? Even _she_ had no idea that you were dead, until my daughter and son-in-law showed up at your house. How do you explain _that?”_

“Perhaps…the letter got lost in the mail?”

The older man let out a deep, aggravated sigh and gave Héctor a look. The same look of pity and frustration that he’d gotten from Ernesto when he married Imelda, and Imelda whenever he gave up something for Ernesto. He’d never understood that look. What was so wrong about being kind and making sacrifices for the people he loved?

“Ernesto de la Cruz may have been your best friend. But he didn’t run for any doctor when you collapsed, no letter got lost in the mail, and no way, no how, did an _ocelot_ bury your body on a pepper farm.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Héctor was irritated now. “That my best friend just abandoned me at the side of the road while I was sick and unconscious? Ernesto would never do that!”

Señor Flores calmly placed the chalk he had been using down on the board. Then he walked away.

“Wait!” said Héctor. “Where are you going?”

“You have my wife’s address,” said Señor Flores. “You’ll know where to find me when you’re ready to hear the truth.”

The door shut, and Héctor was left behind to ponder the old man’s words.

* * *

Grief was part of the Imelda’s being now, a function as real and omnipresent as breathing. There were moments when she forgot she was doing it, but it was always there.

During one of those moments, she was walking up the road to her home, Coco skipping along at her side, pigtails bouncing. A basket of dinner ingredients under her arm, a gentle breeze signaling the coming end of summer. She was thinking about what her brothers would like to eat that Coco would also like to eat. She was going through a picky phase, no vegetables except for squash, mostly plain rice and breads.

And then it happened.

From some unknown close-by source; whistling. It was soft, but she heard it. Coco heard it too, and her skipping turned into dancing. And then she started to sing.

 _“To be here with you tonight_  
Brings me joy que alegria  
For this music is my language  
And the world is mi familia…”

A minute later, Imelda closed her bedroom door behind her, sucking in deep breaths and berating herself for the anger she felt swelling in her belly, mean and hot. The lyrics to the song toyed with her brain, along with the memories that came with it.

Him standing in the center of the plaza, halfway through performing it, meeting her eyes, shoving the old brown guitar in Ernesto’s hands. Slight bow, holding his hand out. Spinning her in circles, sweeping her off her feet as it ended. His heart pounding through his mariachi suit.

 _“For this music is my language,_  
Mi amor, Santa Cecilia  
For this music is my language,  
Mi amor Santa Cecilia”

The stupid argument he and Ernesto had over dinner, trying to decide whether or not they should change the name of the song, since after all, they were going to be playing it for the whole world now. Héctor finally giving in, but later admitting that he’d liked the old version much better.

The happy memories were now painful. The sad memories were now pointless.

Somewhere else in the house, Coco was singing a nursery rhyme to her toys. Imelda covered her ears.

 _Music didn’t kill Héctor,_ Imelda reminded herself. _A_ person _killed Héctor. I can shut everyone else down, but Coco is stuck with me, and music is all she has left of her father. Just because I’ve lost it doesn’t mean I have the right to take it from her_.

When Imelda emerged from her bedroom, Oscar and Filipe were home. They sheepishly told her Coco had caught them sneaking their trumpet out and asked to listen to them play. Imelda surprised all of them by saying yes, then conjured an excuse to leave the house for a while. She had a pair of boots to deliver to a customer, and it couldn’t hurt to bring them back a day early.

As she stepped out, she reminded herself that she might hear a passing tune. Most people in Santa Cecilia knew not to sing or play music around her, but maybe someone would come around the bend whistling, maybe a child would hum to himself, maybe a distant band would play. She would just have to steel herself and keep going.

No amount of self-talk would have prepared her to come face-to-face with a full mariachi band surrounded by an adoring crowd. And she sure as hell wasn’t prepared for what they were playing.

 _“What color is the sky_  
Ay mi amor, ay mi amor  
You tell me that it’s red  
Ay mi amor, ay mi a-”

The scream Imelda let loose caused the lead guitar player’s fingers to stop as he shrunk back, even before she hurled her freshly crafted right boot in his direction, deliberately missing his face by less than an inch. All the other musicians dropped their tunes in confusion

These men weren’t from here. (City dwellers, from the looks of their factory-crafted attire.) That explained the shameless singing and playing in her presence. It didn’t explain why they knew Héctor’s song, and more strangely, why the lead player’s guitar looked eerily similar to his. It had different colors-the neon red and purple alone were enough to make it a crude imitation-but the patterns were almost the same. Right down to the skull design she’d painted on the headstock. The guitar itself had been purchased from a craftsman, but Imelda had painted it.

“Lo siento, Señorita?” The assaulted musician whispered.

“Señora,” Imelda corrected him, still wielding a left boot. “Who are you?”

“M…my name is Renaldo Ortiz. I come from up north. Just a troubadour, here to share my music. I mean no harm, Señora!”

“That’s _not_ your music! You _know_ whose music it is!”

“Si, of course, Señora. I only meant that I…that we…would be playing his songs. I didn’t know you’d heard of him down in Santa Cecilia!”

“He was _from_ Santa Cecilia, born and raised. And we miss him very much.”

“Ay, I understand. Of course you miss him. He is a great musical treasure.”

“I was his wife.”

At that, every mariachi’s jaw hit the floor. No one spoke for several seconds.

“I…I am so sorry, Señora. We had no idea that he had gotten…that he had left a wife behind. We won’t play his music in this town anymore. Lo prominto.”

The other mariachis nodded in agreement.

Imelda withdrew her boot. “Thank you.”

She collected her thrown boot and left. They waited until she had disappeared from view to begin playing a lively tune she didn’t recognize. Then she sat down on a tree stump and waited for her heart to stop pounding before she delivered the shoes, collected her payment, and went home.

As she lay awake that night, she thought about the strange encounter with the musicians. Particularly, the shocked looks on their faces when they found out Héctor was married. The men had seemed almost disgusted at the thought, as if Héctor had done some great harm in marrying her. Or perhaps in marrying anyone at all. Either way, Imelda didn’t like it.

It did make her smile, a little, to know that Héctor and his music were being honored by other musicians. That was something.


	9. Strong on the Surface

Two weeks later, it happened again.

Only this time, the whistler was just a boy. A lanky, spry thing, no more than fourteen. So she didn’t slap him upside the head with a shoe, even though he was in her very own courtyard.

“No music!” Imelda snapped. She made a mental note to put up a sign. “No singing, playing, whistling, humming, or dancing is ever to occur on my property. Do you understand?”

The boy looked perplexed, but he nodded.

“Now, how can I help you?”

The boy held out a pair of men’s sandals. Mostly appearing to be in respectable condition, but the right heel was shredded.

“I can fix it,” Imelda took them and studied the odd puncture marks on the heel. “What happened to these anyway?”

“A cat.”

Imelda wasn’t sure she believed it. Sure, a cat was capable of doing this kind of damage to a shoe, but why would one want to? It wasn’t as though it reeked of fresh fish.

Nevertheless, she invited the boy in and gave him a piece of bread to eat while she made her repairs. She tried to make conversation with him, but he didn’t have much to say. Just that he had a long way to walk. She wondered if he had any family, or any destination in mind at all.

When she went into the back for some supplies, she returned to find that he had cleaned up her work area and was scrubbing her floor for her.

“ _Ay,_ you don’t have to do that!”

He just smiled and kept cleaning.

A few minutes later, he whistled again, then caught himself and immediately offered her an apologetic look. But he hadn’t been whistling just any song, it was the first eight notes of Everyone Knows Juanita.

“How do you know that song?”

The boy looked surprised.

“Mi tio and I saw him in concert once. I mean, we couldn’t get tickets, but mi tio cleans the floors there and on the night of the concert he snuck me into the back.” The boy’s face took on a dreamy look. “It was months ago. It was the best night of my life.”

Imelda had to take a moment to compose herself before speaking again. Héctor had touched so many lives.

“Your shoes are finished,” said Imelda. The boy beamed as he opened his bag, presumably to retrieve a payment. “Oh no, don’t worry about…”

A piece of paper tumbled out of the bag and flapped open as it hit the ground. A crisp gold and white flyer streaked with dirt. In spite of herself, Imelda snatched it up.

 **CONCERTO ESPECTACULAR**  
PLAZA DEL REY  
CIUDAD DE MEXICO  
PRIMERO DE JUNIO 1922  
COMIENZA GIRA DE GRANDE

“Is this the concert you were talking about?”

“Of course,” the boy held out his hand to take it back. He carefully tucked it away.

But Héctor died in December…

“I can pay you for the shoes, I have just enough.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Imelda insisted, a little more harshly than she’d intended to. He turned to leave. “Can I ask you something?” The boy quirked his eyebrows. “What’s his name? You know, the musician. From that concert.

The boy looked at her as though she’d just asked him to define bread or socks, but his tone was polite.

“Why, the great Ernesto de la Cruz!”

* * *

Abandoning all of her day’s errands at once, Imelda put on her shawl, grabbed her purse and keys, and trudged up the hill to Dona Lenor’s house. Coco bumped along behind her like a balloon, giddy that they were going to see the woman who made the best sopapillas in Santa Cecilia and had the big house full of cats. The little girl sang a few made up songs about sweets and cats and flowers, which for once had no affect on Imelda as her negative emotions were already at full capacity.

 _I’m loco to be thinking this,_ she told herself. _All I know is that Ernesto is still performing-which everyone already knew-and that he’s still playing Héctor’s songs. Héctor would probably have been happy to let him play them. Hell, maybe he’s even playing them to honor him somehow. Héctor would surely assume that._

Héctor had always given Ernesto the benefit of the doubt. No matter what the circumstances.

“We grew up like primos.” Héctor had always said. “And he has always believed in me, and my music. He truly, sincerely believes that I have what it takes to become a great musician.”

“Mi amor,” Imelda always replied. “You are already a great musician.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” Héctor planted a kiss on her cheek. “But you know what I mean.”

Of course she’d known. He had meant that Ernesto had convinced him that someone’s worth was measured by their fame and popularity, and that in order to be truly great at the thing he loved most he had to seek those things.

Because Ernesto had wanted them, and he had wanted to pursue them with Héctor at his side.

_I’m loco to be thinking this, but I’d be just as loco not to._

The anger and confusion must have shown on Imelda’s face, for Lenor offered her a drink the second she stepped through the door. Coco immediately dashed off to go play with a scraggly grey cat who thought her hair ribbon was a toy.

“What brings you here today, Imelda?” Lenor waved Imelda to come sit with her. “Are you sure I can’t at least get you a glass of wine?”

“I need to talk to your son.”

“Ay, Ernestitititito is in concert today, but you’re welcome to come back here and call him tomorrow morning, not too early. Did you hear, mijo is so wonderful, he bought me my own telephone line!”

Imelda noticed the shiny new device mounted on the wall and felt her already seething anger bubble. That must have cost a small fortune! If her Héctor’s songs were making money, then that money should be going to Coco.

“Do you know when he’ll next be home to visit?”

“No word, dear,” said Lenor regretfully. “He’s so terribly busy, and Santa Cecilia is so far away from the cities where he’s been working. Oh!” Lenor quickly stood to her feet. “But he did leave something for you! He said you’d surely want your own copy, but didn’t want to bother you about it when…well, you know…when he was here last.”

Her own copy? Of _what?_

Lenor extracted a life-size photograph of a simple document, placed in a thin, sturdy frame.

_“I, Imelda Victoria Solis Rivera, grant Ernesto Marco Urbano Reyes Dimas Ulises Ramon Enriques Renaldo de la Cruz permission to publicly perform any song written by my late husband, Héctor Rivera, and receive full credit and compensation in any form for performing Héctor Rivera’s songs on the night of May 17 th 1922…as well as any other night taking place in the 20th century. Ernesto de la Cruz is also entitled to perform my husband’s songs on the radio and through any other live or electronic media he wishes. In any and all cases, he may receive full credit and compensation. Compensation may come in the form of money, gifts, honors, titles, or privileges._

_In addition, Ernesto de la Cruz has full rights and ownership of any song written by Héctor Rivera. If another party wishes to purchase the rights to perform any song written by Héctor Rivera though live or electronic media, Ernesto de la Cruz is entitled to sell these rights and will again receive full credit and compensation. Ernesto de la Cruz may alter and edit Héctor Rivera’s songs to any extent he wishes or not at all and may reverse any such decisions at any time._

_On behalf of myself, my daughter, Socorro Filipa-Oskara Rivera, and any other future descendants of myself and/or Héctor Rivera, I release any claim to Héctor Rivera’s songs as well as any compensation for the performance or sale of Héctor Rivera’s songs._

_Signed,_

_Imelda Victoria Solis Rivera._

Imelda’s heart pounded. That was definitely her signature. But even though she knew that she’d been a touch discombobulated in the weeks after discovering Héctor’s body, there was _no way,_ no how, that she had agreed to all this.

“I need to talk to Ernesto,” she said again. _“In person._ Where is he?”

“In Tijuana,” said Lenor. “He’s recording The World Es Mi Familia!” She squeezed Imelda’s shoulder, as if to provide comfort. “Imagine, our darling Ernestitititito playing on gramophones everywhere!”

Imelda picked up the frame and slammed it down onto the table as hard as she could, shattering the glass and causing several cats to bolt out of the room. Lenor jumped out of her seat.

“Ay! What’s wrong, dear? Is there un cucaracha?”

Imelda dusted the shards of glass off of the photo and examined the bottommost area.

Signatures could be forged.

But this didn’t look forged.

But there was no way she had signed this document. She would _never_ hand over her husband’s legacy to this lying scoundrel!

Just as Imelda was thinking of storming into town in search of a lawyer, a grey cat, the one that had been playing with Coco earlier, hopped up on the table, startling her. The cat delicately walked across the surface, stepping around broken glass, but pushing the frame to one side as it moved. Then it hopped down and scurried off.

And then she saw it.

Peeking out from behind the photo of the document was another photo, of Ernesto in his mariachi suit. All pearly white grins and pounds of charisma and not a care in the world. And in his arms, there it was.

The beautiful hand-crafted guitar that Imelda had worked for and saved for and commissioned and painted herself. The one she had ultimately given Héctor as an engagement gift, watched his face light up, watched him spin in circles around the room playing love songs, fast and slow, telling her that this was the best guitar in all the world and he wouldn't trade it for anything except for her.

The one that was believed to have been stolen off Héctor’s lifeless body by murdering, thieving scum.

No.

The one that _was_ stolen off Héctor’s lifeless body by murdering, thieving scum.


	10. Not All The Way Through

Imelda had been burning ever since the letters stopped coming. Rage had fueled her, palatable as smoke and scorching as fire. When sadness had threatened to drag her down, fury had pushed her forward, sending her stumbling into the darkness with shoes in her hands and a toddler on her hip.

She would not let the fact that her husband had left her crush her. She would not let him take who she was with her.

When she found out he was dead the whole time, the flames hadn’t subsided. But they had lost direction. A mystery killer, a faceless wretch who’d stolen Hector’s life and disappeared into the night. Hunting them down hadn’t been within the realm of possibility.

Until now.

On the outside, Imelda was everything she normally was and more. Her customers noted her remarkable attention to detail on each and every shoe she sold for the rest of the day and her polite mode of conversation. Her brothers were grateful to have their favorite dinner waiting for them at the end of making their deliveries. The only one who noticed any difference in her at all was Coco, who kept asking, “Are you okay, Mama?” to everyone else’s confusion.

After they finished their dinner, Coco asked Imelda if they could keep the cat. This was odd, because as far as Imelda was aware, they didn’t have a cat. Coco explained to her that the skinny tabby she’d petted at Lenor’s house had followed her halfway home and then disappeared into a bush.

Imelda said no, of course. She had other things on her mind besides the acquisition of pets. Coco was a little disappointed, but also visibly relieved at the indication that Mama was still Mama. Her overall demeanor was stiff and devoid of personality, as if she were being portrayed by a bad actress.

Oscar and Filipe offered to put Coco to bed, so she let them. While they did so, she stuffed an empty rice sack with the few things she wanted with her. Socks and nightclothes. Money. A little food.

She took apart her largest pair of scissors, sharpened one blade on the other, and slipped them both into her bag. Hardly the finest weaponry in Mexico, but it would suffice.

She sank down onto her bed for just a moment. She hadn’t traveled in years, not since before Coco was born. What else was she missing? Hector always packed a whole suitcase full of things, of course he needed his mariachi suit, and his song book, spare guitar strings, guitar picks, the guitar itself in its sturdy case. He always brought a few things to make the hotel rooms feel nicer, too. The first time they’d gone out on the road to perform together, he surprised her with a spice scented candle and a hand-stitched blanket that he’d wrapped around both of them. When he left without her in August, he brought the same blanket along. He said he needed it because it smelled like her.

Imelda had thought all those things were gone forever, scattered about Mexico like fallen embers after a fireworks show. But they weren’t. Whether Ernesto had kept or sold them, they were traceable.

Ernesto would have a lot of questions to answer to business end of her blades. Right before she used them to end his life just like he’d ended Hector’s.

It occurred to Imelda that Ernesto probably wouldn’t kill a man with a blade, unless he had no other options. That wasn’t his style. Too messy. Too primitive. If anything, he may have knocked Hector unconscious and stabbed him with a pin. Or strangled him with his own tie. Or smothered him with a pillow.

Imelda stumbled over to her bedroom window, pushed it open, and vomited into the thornbushes below.

For five months now, she had known Hector was murdered. But she’d been so focused on the _what_ that she’d managed to avoid thinking about the _how_. And the who.

One more sin she would have to atone for in light of her husband’s death. First it took her five months to realize he’d even died.  Then another five to piece together who killed him. And meanwhile, Imelda had invited Ernesto to Hector’s funeral, let him come inside her home, smiled while he spoke to her child, felt sympathy for him, _hugged_ him. The thought brought up another helping of thornbush fertilizer.

At the sound of Coco’s bedroom door clicking shut, Imelda rose to her feet, cleared her throat, and grabbed her bag.

It was time.

She met her brothers in the hallway and instructed them not to make any new shoes while she was gone. “You can each perform the repairs that I’ve taught you, and you can sell the shoes in the box to the left. Those are finished. Anything else will have to wait until I get back.”

Oscar frowned. “Get back?”

Filipe joined him. “From what?”

“It’s best that you not know. Just…make sure that Coco is taken care of. Keep her happy. Let her have an extra piece of candy every day.”

“How many _days_ do you think you’ll be gone?” Oscar pressed.

“As many as it takes.”

The teenage boys exchanged a glance. Then, all four of their hands reached and ripped Imelda’s sack out of her hands and sent the contents tumbling onto the floor. Ignoring her shouts of protest peppered with words she didn’t let them use while Coco was awake, Oscar snatched both scissor blades in his hand and Filipe moved to block the front door.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing! Stop it this instant!”

“No!” Oscar snapped. “Absolutely not! Not until you tell us what’s going on!”

“I can’t!” Imelda shrieked. “You can’t know! Either of you!”

Her livid gaze flitted from one twin to another. Filipe shook his head.

“Imelda,” he said.  “You’re our sister. Ever since Mama died and Papa lost himself at the bottom of a beer bottle, you’ve been taking care of us.  Now, it is our turn to take care of you.”

Oscar straightened up. “Si! Hector dying was an awful, terrible thing, but just because he’s gone does _not_ mean that you’re alone. You should have realized that by now.”

“And as your familia, it is our job to make sure that you don’t do anything stupid like run off to…”

“…to kill a guy with your scissors or whatever.”

When Imelda didn’t respond with a quip, both of her brothers faces turned pale.

“You…” Filipe’s voice faltered. “…were _actually going to kill a guy with your scissors?”_

“I told you,” Imelda hissed. “You _can’t know._ Now give those back and get out of my way!”

“Why?” Oscar asked flatly. “So that you can get yourself incarcerated and make your daughter an orphan?”

Imelda stopped. Something in her eyes flickered as her gaze fell to the metal blade in her brother’s hand.

It was a special pair of scissors for cutting leather. Something only shoemakers needed. And how many zapateras happened to know Ernesto de la Cruz personally? People in Santa Cecilia would notice she’d been gone for a few days. People in Tijuana would see her. Not to mention the train ticket…

Imelda went over to her chair and sat down. Her brothers slid over and positioned themselves on either side of her.

“Meldita,” Filipe whispered. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Ernesto,” Imelda said, her throat thick like molasses. “He murdered Hector.”

She braced herself for ridicule, for anger, for pity.

But the twins’ eyes held nothing but love.

“Are you sure this is true?” Oscar asked.

And she told them everything. The music, the concerts, the forged contract, the stolen guitar. Each one of the boys wrapped an arm around her and leaned in close.

“Imelda,” Filipe said gently. “You can’t just…run off in the dead of night to go kill Ernesto.”

“Well then what can I do?” she snapped, silent tears running down her cheeks. “My husband was killed by the man who he loved and trusted most his entire life. And I’m just supposed to forgive him?”

“Of _course_ not,” Oscar squeezed his sister’s hand. “Listen.”

“We can’t let you go,” Filipe insisted. _“But…”_

“We will help you,” Oscar finished.

She stopped. She looked into the faces of her little brothers, each as serious as the other.

“So,” said Filipe. “How do we get to de la Cruz?”


End file.
